


A Collection of Kisses

by significantowl



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Beautiful Scenery, Canon Disabled Character, Eyelid Kisses, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Headaches, Hiking, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Kiss on the lips, Kisses, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Rain, Tumblr Memes, nose kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing ficlets written for a meme on tumblr.</p><p>1) Charles/Erik forehead kiss, for Kageillusionz; late nights, headaches, and hurt-comfort</p><p>2) Charles/Erik nose kiss, for anon; sudden rainshowers, errant drops of water, and fluff</p><p>3) James/Michael eyelid kiss, for Capriccio; sleepless nights and comfort</p><p>4) James/Michael kiss, for Luninosity (meant to be a collarbone kiss, but it didn't quite work out that way!); dramatic sea views, meeting-the-parents angst, and comfort</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The creases in Charles' forehead become deep grooves as the night lengthens and the clock ticks on. When he begins rubbing a spot just above his left eye, three fingertips traveling slowly in a circle, Erik doubts he's even aware he's doing it.

The armchair stutters over the lush carpet when Erik pushes it back, rising to his feet. He rounds Charles' massive desk, strewn from corner to corner with books and papers, and perches on the edge, his knee bumping the wheel of Charles' chair. Charles blinks up at him, attention still half-commanded by the documents spread before him. He's curious, questioning Erik gently, wordlessly; he's also broadcasting a dark, shadowy halo of pain.

Erik reaches up and draws Charles' hand away from his face, lacing their fingers together. His lips are softer than Charles' fingertips. It's one of those times that he can be kinder to Charles, better to Charles, than Charles is to himself.

Power wrapped in skin and blood and bone; it's in Erik's nature to think in component parts, and he does so now, at the first touch of his lips to Charles' forehead. The skin is warm, the curve of Charles' skull firm, but it's the blood that's the trouble, throbbing in Charles' veins, the pressure more than it should be. Erik knows it because he can feel each shifting speck of iron, down deep.

Charles leans forward into the kiss, and breaths a soft, quiet sigh.

Tracing a circle with his lips, massaging the spot that Charles had been worrying earlier, Erik thinks, _I would consider it a personal favor if you would leave this and come to bed._

_A personal favor? Does that mean I get to ask one in return?_

It's Erik's turn to sigh. _Of course, Charles._

"Don't stop," Charles whispers, his voice barely louder than the ticking of the clock.

There's no need for Erik to reply in words, either spoken or unspoken; this is something he understands by now. Instead, he lets his mind dwell on the path traveled by his mouth like a man walking a labyrinth, around and around, a circuit without beginning or end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2) Charles/Erik nose kiss, for anon; sudden rainshowers, errant drops of water, and fluff

Charles was dry, for the most part, and while Erik could count that as a personal victory over the spring rainshower that had taken them by surprise, he would have preferred a more complete victory all the same. The riverside pedestrian walk between their hotel and San Antonio's convention center was littered with overpriced shops, bars, and restaurants, any number of which would have made a fine spot for waiting out the storm entirely, but Charles had refused. They'd be late, he’d said, and they couldn't be late.

Erik thought that delivering the keynote address meant they could be precisely as late as they wished - it wasn't as if anything was going to happen without them, after all - but this was another of those times when his opinion and Charles' didn't line up.

There was an awning above the closest door to the convention center, a small, out-of-the way emergency exit, and now that they were safely beneath it Erik let drop the makeshift umbrella he'd created. In its previous life, it had been a brushed steel tabletop on the patio of one of those overpriced restaurants, and he'd appropriated it despite Charles' protests the moment Charles had said no to waiting sensibly for the skies to clear.

It had done the job, and had the advantages of providing more coverage than a regular umbrella, being easy to float above Charles' chair, and running no danger of turning inside-out in the wind. It had come with the theoretical risk of attracting a lightning strike, but Erik's abilities made errant pulses of electricity a far more controllable threat than torrents of rain. It had also come with the non-theoretical fact of Charles' annoyance, written across Charles' face and inside Erik's mind, but that was all right, because Erik was annoyed as well.

The rain still drilled onto the flagstones just outside their little nook, and occasionally lashed inward on errant gusts of wind. Charles' hair was damp, the shoulders of his crisp blue dress shirt carelessly scattered with dark water droplets, but his hands had taken the worst of it, wet and streaked with mud and grit from his wheels.

"Don't," Erik said, recognizing the small twitch of Charles' shoulders as a shrug, and the rueful twist of his mouth as resignation. He caught Charles' wrists in one hand, and wrenched his shirttail free of his trousers with the other. "Don't ruin your trousers, use this. No one will be able to see."

Charles sighed. "I'm hardly going to ruin _your_ clothes because I didn't think to put on my gloves. You're half-soaked as it is."

"It's invigorating. This city is far warmer than it needs to be. The air should not be steaming in April."

"We _are_ in Texas," Charles said, smile curving over his lips. "All right, but for goodness' sake, come closer-"

He broke Erik's grip and fisted his hands in Erik's shirttail, and Erik let himself be reeled in. When Charles finished drying his hands, he tugged sharply downwards, and Erik wedged his knees on the footrests of Charles' chair and leaned in close, stomach brushing against Charles's knees. A wet, unruly curl fell across Charles' forehead, and Erik smoothed it away with his thumb.

"Well, if it's hair we're worried about..." Charles murmured, gaze traveling upwards.

"My hair is fine. Wet or dry, it is capable of maintaining control."

"Yes, of course," Charles said, his amusement rolling gently through Erik's head. "But if you'll allow me, there's just one other thing -"

Lacing his hands behind Erik's neck, tilting his head down, Charles pressed his lips to the tip of Erik's nose. Erik's eyes fluttered closed automatically at the touch, and for a moment it was as if nothing else existed: not the pounding rain, the city, the hundreds of people inside who had paid money to hear them speak, nor even the bare handful who would take their words away and turn their words into action. Just him, and just Charles.

"You had water dripping down your nose," Charles whispered, slowly pulling back. "Thank you for letting me take care of it."

"The same to you," Erik said, thinking of the ruined tabletop and his ruined shirt, two things out of many he was happy to damage for Charles; inside his mind, Charles smiled as fondly as he sighed.

"Shall we go disagree loudly on a stage in front of a great many people?"

"Lead the way," Erik said, and waved his hand to unlock the emergency door so that they might go through.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James/Michael eyelid kiss, for Capriccio; sleepless nights and comfort.

A figure drifted through the dark kitchen, silent as a ghost. Even though Michael knew it was James, a quick, instinctive shiver ran through him nonetheless. The moon had scuttled behind the clouds, and to his eye James was nothing but a restless shadow, impossible to hold.

"James." The night demanded quiet, and Michael spoke as if they were still in bed together, soft and full of care. "I missed you."

James turned towards him, but in the dark, he was featureless; when he spoke, Michael couldn't see his lips move, couldn't read his eyes. "I'm sorry." His voice was as ragged the clouds covering the moon, and every bit as close to breaking. "I'm sorry, but you're not supposed to be awake. That's why I came down, you're supposed to be asleep, one of us should sleep -"

"Ssh." Michael took a swift step forward and caught James in his arms, caging him gently. "Don't worry about me. Come back to bed?"

Too gentle with his cage, or too clumsy with his words; James slipped away easily, on the move again. Michael shadowed him through the kitchen, past stove and refrigerator and table, and when James' aimless path took him to the door to the lounge, followed him through.

He was careful, this time. Michael didn't try to touch James again until James finally stilled in front of the picture window, looking out at their sleeping road. No lights in windows, no passing cars; the hour for all those things had come and gone. They were alone, now, until dawn.

Michael fitted his chest to James' back and waited, letting out a breath when James finally slumped back into him, his pillow-mussed hair wild against Michael's neck. Still, Michael was cautious, not sliding his arms around James' waist and drawing him closer. If there were no trap, James would have no need to break free.

"How about the sofa?" Michael whispered, quiet moments later. "We'll sit and rest together, in the dark. We won't try to sleep," he added quickly, feeling James stir against him, ready to protest. "You're done with trying. I know. I know. And I've had enough, I promise you. We'll just sit and rest, and see if we get a pretty sunrise."

A long pause, and no sound but the wind rattling the window panes. When James' head bobbed, a swift, silent concession, Michael finally dared take his hand.

Beside the leather sofa sat a basket of mismatched afghans, and on the way Michael snatched up the softest one, a chenille thing his mam had made sometime in the seventies. It was eye-searingly ugly but comfortable as sin, and just what James needed tonight. No scratchy wool to prickle at his arms and help keep him awake, because of course Michael had an ulterior motive, of course he intended to see James sleep.

"How's that?" he asked when they were settled, James' cheek to his chest, the blanket tucked around them both. "Good?"

Sighing, James curled in even closer, tangling their legs together. When he tipped his head back to glance up at Michael, the moonlight was kind, highlighting the pale stretch of his neck, glinting off the peak of his nose. At last, Michael could see him clearly; at last, he was entirely _James_ , shadows banished to the corners where they belonged.

"It's perfect," James said, on a long exhale. "You're perfect."

Michael stroked James' back, slow sweeps of his hand that mirrored his own even breathing. He willed James to fall into the same rhythm, to be let himself be soothed by that motion and the rise and fall of Michael’s chest beneath his head. When at long last James' eyelids fluttered closed, when his lashes fanned dark against his skin, Michael let out his own sigh. Carefully, so carefully, he brushed his lips over each delicate lid in turn, as if enchantment might linger in a kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4) James/Michael kiss, for Luninosity (meant to be a collarbone kiss, but it didn't quite work out that way!); dramatic sea views, meeting-the-parents angst, and comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this photo of Downpatrick Head, Ireland](http://significantowl.tumblr.com/post/59346636253/the53ers-downpatrick-head-mayo-ireland) on tumblr. Many thanks to Capriccio for her eyes and ears!

Getting his breath back came first. What the climb hadn't stolen away from James, the view in front of him had; it was a staggering drop down to the sea, along a rugged cliff-face that had been beaten and battered by the Atlantic, but stood all the prouder for it. The water below was dark, streaked with white-capped waves, while the sky above was a bright mirror, jewel-blue and dappled with the softest of clouds.

It could have been dizzying, but Michael was steady at his back, and James had no fear of falling.

"That's a dramatic view, all right," James said, trusting Michael to hear him even if he didn't turn his head. He simply couldn't look away, not yet. Just offshore rose a great sea stack, a tower of stratified rock as high as they cliff they stood on, looking for all the world as if it had been sliced away by the hand of a god.

"And of course it is." Big hands slid over James' hips, steadying him further. "I promised you dramatic, and I'm in a habit of keeping my promises."

"I do enjoy that about you," James said, leaning into Michael, letting those broad shoulders block some of the wind. Up here it was fierce, but joyously so, hurtling over the headland in its rush to reach the sea.

Michael had promised that this visit with his parents would go well, and so far that had held true. James had met the Fassbenders before, on a few evenings out here and there when they'd been over to see Michael in London, but this was the first time he'd been a guest in their home, sat at their table, slept in their son's childhood bed. The first time he'd had quite so many chances to make them love him or loathe him.

But there was no reason to dwell on that, because things truly were going as well as James could have hoped. Michael's father had plied James with delicious food and drink, his mother had hand-knitted the outstandingly warm jumper he was wearing right now, and in every moment, in every way, they had proven as warm and wonderful as Michael himself. Still: it was easier to breathe, here, alone with Michael at the edge of the world. Fresh salt air, a whipping wind, and a path they made for themselves.

James did tear his eyes away from the view then, tilting his head to slip a kiss onto the warm, sheltered skin beneath Michael's jaw. Michael squeezed his waist in response, and murmured, "There they are."

"What?"

"James McAvoy's lips. I thought they might be under some sort of licensing restrictions, you know, only to be deployed in the United Kingdom, never in Ireland...."

"I'll show you licensing restrictions," James grumbled, turning in Michael's arms and tugging his head down to kiss him properly. Michael was most certainly exaggerating - there'd been good night kisses and good morning kisses, and middle-of-the-night-we're-both-awake kisses - but maybe not so many on the other side of that bedroom door. 

He intended to start with a little attention to Michael's lower lip, because that was a proven way to both demonstrate his own interest and command Michael's. But the wind dashed hard at James' back, and he rocked on his heels, suddenly completely aware that there was nothing behind him now but the open air and a long way down to the sea.

He grabbed at Michael's shoulders, then his forearm, as he twisted round to face the view again. And if his stomach weren't already in freefall, what he glimpsed on Michael's face would have sent it plummeting: confusion and worry, and worst of all, uncertainty, where none ever belonged. James had broken away in a moment that should have been about reassurance; what was Michael supposed to think?

"No, shit, no, it's that -" James flapped a hand towards the cliff. "Sorry, it just got to my head for a moment there."

"We'll go back down," Michael said immediately, but James shook his head. "Up to the Long Stone, then?"

The monolith was only a little farther up the hill, a grey stone far taller and broader than a man; James said yes in an effort to smooth some of the worry-lines off Michael's forehead, not because he truly thought it would make a better anchor than Michael himself. Even if it were alive, as stories about such rocks often went, even if it could move and walk and dip its head and drink from the sea, it would never be better than Michael, because it wouldn't care.

Michael's grip on his hand was almost bruisingly tight as they scrambled up the last few feet, and when they settled down in the scrubby grass at the stone's base, the first word he said was, "Better?"

"I'm fine," James said, leaning in so that his kiss might do the rest of the talking. But Michael stopped him, pressing his palm to James' cheek with a firmness that could only mean _wait_.

"I keep taking you to all the wrong places. I'm sorry."

"What? No," James protested, with a quick, fierce head-shake that made Michael drop his hand. "What are you talking about? This is fucking amazing."

The stone's long shadow fell across Michael's lap, but his face remained untouched. Michael's eyes always reminded James of the sea, both in colour and in changeability, and now they were as dark and turbulent as the waves below. "You're not comfortable here, and you're not comfortable at my parents' house."

The words _I'm fine_ were on James' lips again, but they died back at the expression on Michael's face. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, searching for new ones. "It's not home," he said finally, "but that doesn't mean I don't want to be here. Or there. I just might..." _Need you to hold onto,_ his hands said for him, fingers lacing through Michael's and tugging.

"Of course. Always," Michael said, squeezing tight. "And that's another promise.”

Which made it priceless. If James got things wrong in front of Michael’s parents, _when_ he got things wrong in front of Michael’s parents, Michael would be there to make them right again. A simple reach of his hand, and he would have Michael’s, and he would never have to worry about Michael letting go.

This time, when James leaned in, when he pulled Michael's head down, his lips finally met Michael's with a joy like that of the wind meeting the sea: of a traveller whose journey has inexorably become his destination, who has come home.


End file.
